


The game of a higher price

by Ariana (Ariana_El)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Character Death, Emotions, F/M, Gen, HLV, Post His Last Vow, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Moriarty is dead, but he somehow appeared on every screen in England. Why? Some adventure story with lots of emotions and a bit of angst. It's a translation of my Polish story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was coming home! Whoever was behind that hacking to all the television stations, whoever got that old video with James Moriarty, had just made Sherlock NOT fly on that suicide mission in Eastern Europe. Whatever was coming next, he would deal with it...

 

The detective got out from the black car and enthusiastically opened the green door leading to 221B Baker Street. He no longer had to hide his excitement from his brother. Sherlock hung his coat by the doors and grabbing his phone, he ran upstairs. Judging by the noise of the vacuum cleaner, Mrs. Hudson had finally gotten to clean his flat. Well, she would be startled... Sherlock ran inside with a wide grin, happy to surprise the old lady.

 

                “Mrs. Hudson? Surp...”                The words stuck in Sherlock’s throat and the world turned upside down. Mrs. Hudson was laying naked on the carpet, and all Sherlock could see were bloody massages ‘did you miss me?’ written all over her body. Somewhere there the vacuum cleaner was howling. The noise was unbearable, the sight unforgettable.

 

                He never, ever reacted badly at the sight of the corpse, but now he could barely stop his stomach from twisting violently, as he leaned over the old lady, checking if she was alive out of pure stubbornness. Somewhere in his foggy mind he thought that he should be grateful for her broken neck.

 

                The vacuum cleaner howled. The noise drilled into his ears, driving him crazy. For a moment Sherlock had no idea what was going on, except the general feeling of the walls crushing around him and the spinning floor. He almost blacked out...

 

                There was no time for sentiment. The detective rose on his feet, at the same time unplugging the vacuum cleaner and making it shut up. In his mind, he had one scenario going after another, and all of them were unpleasant. If someone got Mrs. Hudson, who was going to be next...

 

Sherlock grabbed his phone. One thing at a time, calm down, think...

 

                “Mycroft? Baker Street, now,” he barked, as soon as he heard his brother’s voice. “Bring Watsons along. Now.”

 

                “Sherlock, what...” Sherlock didn’t hear the rest of Mycroft’s question, as he ended the conversation. He knew without doubt that his brother would come.

 

                The next phone call was to the detective inspector. Lestrade answered at once, surprised that Sherlock called him instead of texting.

 

                “I need police at Baker Street.” Sherlock really tried to hide the fact that his voice was breaking. “I have a crime scene in here. It’s your division.”

 

                Red button. Next call.

 

                Silence.

 

                Dial again.

 

                Nothing. Voice mail.

 

                Dial again.

 

                “Molly!”

 

                Nonononono... Sherlock was already running down the stairs, dialing her number again and again. With no result, Molly’s mobile remained silent. The detective went outside and he faced the ice cold wind, but there was a taxi, so he just ran and got into it, instead of returning inside to grab his coat.

 

Dial again. Dial again. Dial again.

 

                He called Molly twenty seven times before he got to the hospital. As soon as the taxi stopped by the entrance, Sherlock jumped out, shouting at the cabbie to wait for him. He didn’t pay much attention to the driver’s protests, or the fact that he didn’t have his wallet and therefore he had no way to pay for the ride. It really wasn’t important right now.

.

                Sherlock had no idea how many people he almost ran into on his way to the morgue. Every time he tried to get into his mind palace, the realistic feeling of crushing walls was returning. Somewhere there he heard Mycroft’s malicious voice, pointing out how destructive all his caring was, but Sherlock had bigger problems.

 

                “Molly?” he called, entering the morgue. He looked around feverishly, but the room was empty, except a corpse on the table, under a plastic bag. “No...”

 

                The detective removed the bag to uncover the body. Male, about sixty, stated Sherlock after first glance, but he couldn’t relax. Whoever had killed Mrs. Hudson, they could have enough information to know about Molly, and, what was worse, they could be... creative. Therefore Sherlock followed the first thought that crossed his mind, and started removing the fridge drawers, one after another, every time scared to death that he would see Molly Hooper there, dead or alive. He was still too confused to think clearly ant try to deduce the motives and preferences of the killer.

 

                Sherlock saw Molly a moment later. The pathologist came into the morgue and froze at the sight of the chaos, her eyes wide open in astonishment.

 

                “For God’s sake, what’s going on in here?! Sher...” The woman stopped, as the detective made three long steps and closed her in a tight embrace.

 

                “Molly...”

 

                “Yeah, I’m glad to see you too, but you will break me,” said the pathologist. “So they called you back, like I thought they would...”

 

                Sherlock collected himself a bit and loosened his grip, so that he stopped crushing her ribs, but he didn’t look like he was going to let go of her.

 

                “Did you see? The video?” he murmured somewhere near her braid.

 

                “Yes, I guess everybody saw that,” replied Molly, more and more confused and worried by Sherlock’s behavior. “But it cannot be him, I mean I saw him on this slab, lacking half of his brain,” she reminded her friend. “Sherlock?”

 

                “You didn’t answer your phone. I thought they killed you too.” Sherlock spat out and let her go. Only then Molly saw that he was wearing only his suit, and his hands had signs of what supposedly was a dried blood.

 

                “Too?” she repeated numbly. “W-what do you mean?” For a moment the old, stuttering Molly was back, but this time for another reason.

 

                “Mrs. Hudson. Right in the middle on the carpet in my living room. She’s dead,” explained Sherlock in a dead voice. “I thought that you were dead too.”

 

                “Oh my God...” This time it was Molly who embraced him, trying to comfort him and seeking for comfort. Suddenly she realized why Sherlock came here so frightened. Suddenly she was scared too. “Sherlock? Your mobile is ringing,” she realized after a moment, feeling the phone buzzing in his pocket.

 

                “What? Oh.” The detective caught up and fished out his phone. “Yes?” he asked sharply.

 

                “ _Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”_ greeted him an angry John. _“Answer your phone, would you! We’re trying to catch you for the last quarter!”_

 

                “John? Are you with Mycroft? At Baker Street?” asked Sherlock hurriedly.

 

                “ _Yes! And you know what we found here... And your coat was on the floor, your mobile not responding...”_ John was clearly mad. He shut silent for a moment, and then asked in completely different voice _. “Sherlock? Are you... Did someone...”_

 

                “What? No, no!” reassured the detective, almost physically feeling what was going through his friend’s head. John assumed that he had been kidnapped.

 

                Molly, who stood close enough to hear both sides, suddenly grabbed Sherlock’s mobile.

 

                “John? We’re at Bart’s. Sherlock... came here for me” she explained awkwardly. “He’s fine,” she said, glancing worriedly at her friend.

 

                “We’re on our way,” added Sherlock and took back his phone, as suddenly as Molly a moment earlier. “Come on,” he said to the pathologist and grabbed her hand, ready to go.

 

                “Sherlock, wait!” Molly stopped him. “Let me take my bag and jacket,” she pointed out reasonably.

 

                “Fine.” Sherlock obediently turned back. He stood in the office door, nervously drumming his fingers, while Molly quickly collected her things and sorted the documents on her desk. But before she finished, she didn’t resist. She came closer to Sherlock and immobilized his fingers.

 

                “Go and wash your hands,” she asked quietly. Sherlock nodded, still looking a bit confused, and left to the morgue, where was a big sink in a corner. Just like Molly asked, he kept rubbing, trying to get rid of the dried blood, until his hands reddened and got warmer. When the pathologist finally emerged from the office and closed the doors behind her, the detective turned off the water and dried his hands with a paper towel.

 

                “Shell we go now?” he growled unpleasantly, trying to regain control of the situation. His fingers shook nervously again, so Molly grabbed his hand and nodded, still dumped in the face. Sherlock left the morgue without a word, dragging her behind. Only outside, when he saw the waiting taxi, he realized what he had forgotten about.

 

                “Err... Molly? Do you have any cash?” he asked, embarrassed. “I forgot my wallet.”

                “Yes, I have.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

                When they got to Baker Street, there were two police cars along with Greg’s car, and the whole street was closed. Molly paid the cabbie and got out of the car, dragging Sherlock along, as she still kept his hand. Together, they went under a yellow tape without being stopped; the policemen knew Sherlock well enough.

                The Watsons were waiting for them in the kitchen, both upset and a bit out of place, as no one needed them. Greg was working with his team and Mycroft was hanging on his mobile in the corridor.

                “Oh, finally,” signed John, when he saw them. Only when he glanced at Molly questioningly, she let go of Sherlock’s hand, embarrassed.

                As soon as she did that, Sherlock stormed into the living room, putting latex gloves he got out of nowhere. Molly closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, ready to join him.

                “You don’t have to do that,” said John softly. “It’s not too...”

                “John, I am a pathologist,” Molly reminded him, though she suspected at the moment she didn’t exactly look or act professionally. “I will see her anyway, if not here, then at work. No difference.”

                That was one of these moments when Molly hated her job. Usually she would keep her distance, and remain an overly happy morgue worker. But it was hard to be professional when the dead person was someone you knew and liked. And right now she wasn’t the only one who had this problem.

                Sherlock was kneeling by Mrs. Hudson’s body and examining the inscriptions on her tiny arms. Greg stood over him, waiting for any clues he might have had. Molly just stopped by, unsure whether her help was needed. She really hoped it wasn’t.

                “I’m afraid you will find my fingerprints as well in the analysis,” muttered Sherlock, leaning so he was almost touching the bloody signs with his nose.

                “What?” Lestrade was surprised at first, but he quickly composed himself. “Did you touch anything before you called me?” he asked sharply. The detective inspector at work. “Sherlock!”

                “I was too busy checking for life signs to remember about gloves!” snapped Sherlock, rising his head and looking at the inspector with anger. “This body lays here for two, three hours,” he started talking with his usual speed. Molly and Greg exchanged glances; Sherlock didn’t say ‘Mrs. Hudson’. “There were two murderers at least... I see two different handwritings, it wasn’t made by one person...”

                “Three.” Mycroft corrected him suddenly.

                Sherlock, distracted by his brother’s comment, didn’t say a word. He just closed his eyes, trying to focus.

                “Three men.” Mycroft went on. “They had a removal car, went in, did what they did, and left with some boxes. That’s what my people got from cctv on the street.”

                “Ok, but who was that? Moriarty?” asked Greg. “And why?” His question must have been too pushing, because Sherlock exploded.

                “I don’t know!”

                The inspector watched for a moment the kneeling detective, Molly standing beside him, and glanced at the unmoved Mycroft in the doors. Then he firmly caught Sherlock’s arms and forced him to stand up.

                “Ok, let’s go.”

                “What do you think you’re doing?” objected the younger Holmes, but Greg just pushed him towards the kitchen. Right now the inspector had not his consulting detective, but the victim’s family on a crime scene. With every indications that he needed an orange blanket.

                “Nothing,” he answered calmly. “It’s alright, Sherlock, we’ll go back to that. We’re in no hurry. Right now just go out of here, drink some tea and get warmer.” The inspector noticed Sherlock’s cold hands.

                “What do you want, Lestrade?”

                “He wants nothing but you to get a grip and have a break. Then you can work,” stated John, momentarily catching what was going on. He took Sherlock to the kitchen, where Mary had already done huge amounts of tea. The doctor grabbed the nearest mug, put some sugar in it, and handed it to his friend. Sherlock had to accept it, if he didn’t want to have this tea all over himself.

                “Could you stop fussing?” snapped the detective, when John ostentatiously showed him a chair. Sherlock just stubbornly leaned against a cupboard. At least he removed the gloves and curled his cold fingers around the warm mug.

                “Just breathe deeply, you stop thinking clearly,” Mary pointed out logically.

                “Oh, here you are,” said Mycroft, entering the more and more polluted kitchen. The look he gave his brother was full of pity. “Sherlock, look at you. What did I tell you about not getting involved?” he asked patronizingly.

                Bum! John’s mug slammed against the table, tea splashing around. Sherlock’s mug began shaking dangerously. The younger Holmes was white like a sheet, and he looked as if he wanted to step back, had he had enough space. Mary looked down at the table she was sitting by.

                “Mycroft, I suggest you shut up,” said John suspiciously calmly, after he saw Sherlock. “You’re not helping.”

                “And apparently your presence influences, or rather influenced my brother’s quick thinking,” retorted Mycroft. “Caring brings only trouble, brother mine,” he said to Sherlock. “Redbeard didn’t teach you anything, did he?”

                Mycroft said two words too many and the detective’s white mug crashed on the floor. In the living room, Molly jumped from the floor, shocked by the words of the elder Holmes and the reaction of the younger.

                “Mycroft, get out,” ordered John. He stood behind Mary, so that he found himself between the brothers. “You’re not helping, on the contrary.”

                Molly slipped inside and went directly to Sherlock, passing over a tea puddle on the floor. Mycroft’s behavior had just gone above her levels of understanding. How could he say such things to Sherlock, when he obviously needed some comfort?

                “John, do you really think that in the current situation with a national hacking, I would waste my time in here any longer?” asked Mycroft. “I have better things to do. Sherlock, I will see you in my office in two hours. Some people... required your presence,” he reminded everyone, leaving no place for doubts. Sherlock might have not left the country, but it didn’t mean he was free from obligations to his brother. Everyone knew perfectly well that only full cooperation with secret service protected him from regular trial and prison in the end.

                “I’ll be there,” promised Sherlock, not looking at his brother.

                “He’ll be there if he’s up to it,” corrected John, making himself as clear as Mycroft did. In this company he was the doctor and he was going to use that, if necessary. Molly wouldn’t be surprised at all if John sent Mycroft a perfectly legal sick leave.

                “Your flats are being searched for any threat,” replied Mycroft. “We’ll check Baker Street as well, as soon as the police is done. Goodbye.”

                No longer having a mug in his hands, Sherlock crossed his arms tightly around his chest. He muted the voices around him, focusing on the image of his brother, frozen in his memories. He felt as if the image of Mycroft he had inside his head since he was a child had just stepped outside. And for a moment, Sherlock again was this little boy, naive enough to think that his brother was the smartest person. In front of everyone.

                “Hey, Sherlock?” He heard John’s anxious voice. “Are you alright?”

                “What? Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock reassured him. He realized that Molly was not only standing next to him, but she also had her arm around him.

                “Don’t lie,” protested the ladies simultaneously, surprising Sherlock yet again. He was still used to the fact that he could make John believe lots of things.

                “I never thought I would say that, but your brother can be even more tactless than you,” commented Greg, joining them. “What the hell was that?”

                „Just the Mycroft I always knew,” replied Sherlock quietly. He decided to look up and glanced at his friends.  He seemed to want to say something, but he hesitated and shook his head, blinking rapidly.

                “What’s wrong?” asked Molly, worried by his behavior.

                “Nothing, just...”

                “Sherlock?”

                “It’s so unrealistic, seeing you all in here.” Sherlock spat out, avoiding anyone’s eyes. “I was never to meet you again, and yet...”

                “What do you mean, you were not going to see us again?” repeated Molly, turning around so she could look Sherlock in the eyes. Or at least she tired, because the detective kept stubbornly studying the tea under his feet.

                “I was never to come back to London, I told you...”

                “So we would have met somewhere else,” John pointed out. “You said Mycroft estimated your job at East for six months. He promised us to occasionally pass news from you, so sooner or later we would go to see you.”

                The mere mentioning of the mission was like a bucket of cold water. Sherlock stopped making holes in the floor with his eyes and looked at John.

                “That was never going to happen. Mycroft is never wrong in..” he stopped, realizing what he had just said. Once again, he looked away, but it was too late. Mary was the first to understand what he meant.

                “You were not to come back from this mission, weren’t you?” she asked. “They were sending you on a suicide mission.”

                Greg, from all of them the least orientated in the whole situation, sat on the free chair, mouth wide open. John froze, and Molly just closed her eyes.

                “Sherlock, tell me it’s not true,” she asked, barely keeping her voice from breaking. “Tell me Mary is wrong.”

                “She’s right,” replied Sherlock shortly, not daring to look at anyone. For the moment the only noises were the ones made by Sally in the living room.

                “Why didn’t we know?” Asked John for everybody. “You were going to have yourself killed and you didn’t say a word. Why?”

                “Because I didn’t want to do it again to you!” Now Sherlock was shouting, pushed too far by his friend’s questions. “You were to never know, it was easier that way!”

                “Easier for who?” asked Mary. “Because it wasn’t for you.”  
                “You already faked your death and lied to us once,” John pointed out mercilessly. “You promised to never do such thing again. And now it turns out you were going to lie that you are alive. And I suspect your brother was going to pass us your greetings from beyond your grave?”

                “You were never to find out,” tried Sherlock weakly. Next to him, Molly did her best trying not to lose control. “I would have vanished from your lives slowly, not so violently... like the last time.”

                “But we did find out,” said Mary. “You should have told us...”

                “I’m close to saying that I’m glad Moriarty returned,” muttered Greg in a dead voice. “If not for...”

                “It is not Moriarty!” Molly cut him off. “Stop saying it’s him. James Moriarty is dead, I signed his death certificate.”

                “As you did with his,” noticed Mary, pointing at Sherlock. She wanted to lighten the mood a bit, but she got exactly the opposite reaction. Molly exploded, surprising them all.

                “Are you suggesting that I helped him survive too? And I kept it secret from Sherlock so I wouldn’t spoil the fun?” she growled, looking at Mary without hiding her reluctance. “How dare you suggest that!? You?”

                “Molly...” Sherlock tried to interrupt, taken aback like the others.

                “I didn’t suggest anything like that,” Mary reassured her.

                “But Sherlock was going to die because of you,” retorted the pathologist, no longer controlling her voice nor the tears running down her cheeks. “It’s the second time,” she shot.

                “Molly!” exclaimed the shocked detective.

                Mary looked down, not trying to defend herself. To everyone but Greg it was obvious that Sherlock had killed Magnussen to protect Mary Watson and as a consequence he was to be sent on a suicide mission. Molly just said it aloud.

                The silence fell. Molly was standing next to frozen Sherlock and she was shaking, Greg was trying to understand what was going on, and John was torn. He wanted to comfort Mary somehow, but them he knew what Molly had said was true. And then, he had made his choices, just like Sherlock did... The silence was broken by Molly, who couldn’t stand the tension any longer. She ran out on the corridor. Her heels echoed on the stairs.

                “Inspector, what about this carpet?” called sergeant Donovan from the room. Willy-nilly, Lestrade joined her, and John came closer to Sherlock.

                “Go after her.”

                The detective obeyed, leaving wet brown tracks of tea on the floor. He still had a feeling of general overload, and that made him careless, so he talked more, which made the whole situation even more tensed... It was like going in circles.

                Molly didn’t leave the house. She was standing on the landing, leaning against the wall, and she was crying silently. When Sherlock joined her, not sure if any kind of apology would work, the woman embraced him closely and kept crying on his jacket.

                “Molly, please, stop that,” murmured Sherlock, dismayed. He felt his eyes being suspiciously wet. No! He was to focus...

                “Why didn’t you trust me this time?” asked Molly, embracing him even tighter.

                “To spare you all of this,” repeated Sherlock, hoping she would understand. “John told me once that people protect their friends. It is all I was trying to do.”

                “But it works both ways, you know,” said John from the upstairs. He stood in the kitchen doors and looked at the pair on the stairs. “It’s not like it’s only you working yourself to death, we’re all involved and we are here for you as well. And Mycroft can go to hell with all his shit, he won’t make you believe otherwise.”

                “You’ve changed for the better and your brother is not going to ruin that,” added Molly, wiping her eyes. She glanced at the mascara traces on Sherlock’s collar. “Oh, sorry.”

                “Never mind.” Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t even try to comment his friends’ remarks about Mycroft. “Ok, back to work,” he said, seeing that Molly composed herself more or less.

                “Alright...”

                Sherlock ran up the stairs, but instead of going into the living room, he headed one floor above to John’s old room. The doctor followed him, as well as Molly, who didn’t feel comfortable to stay in kitchen all alone with Mary.

                “So?”

                “Just like I thought,” stated Sherlock, glancing around the room. “Two boxes with documents from the old cases are missing,” he started explaining. “Photos of the crime scenes, prints, newspapers... I have most of it on my laptop, but it’s usually easier to compare things on paper.”

                “Yeah.” nodded John. He saw many times the mixture of notes and photos on the wall in the living room, and even if it always looked chaotic to him, he knew it helped Sherlock to sort all the information he had. “So that’s what’s missing?”

                “Half of the box contained information about Moriarty,” said Sherlock grimly. “Every article from the press, beginning with that bomb race, then the media scandal around his trial... Every single case I suspected Moriarty was involved in was in there. Sorted and described,” he winced.

                “So whoever has it, they just got new data about him,” Molly summed up. “God, it’s like all the nightmares from past are coming back.”

                “I agree.” John shivered. “Someone got inspired...”

                “And it means we can expect literally everything,” finished Sherlock and he left the room with his friends.

                They went into the kitchen and found an awkward situation, because Greg tried to politely find out what Molly had meant when she had accused Mary. John’s wife looked like she didn’t know what to say and was waiting for Sherlock’s permission. Molly lost countenance when she heard the inspector’s questions.

                “Care to tell me what’s going on?” Greg asked directly, no longer trying to be polite. “Sherlock? John?”

                “Explain.” Sherlock muttered to his friend. “We’re alone, tell him whatever you want,” he said, as Sally had gone downstairs to join the rest of the policemen.

                Whether he liked or not, John was left to do the explaining, while Sherlock went to the room. He was furious. Because of this emotional thing and the inspector’s stupid concern the police had already ruined everything, and even if there had been something that could lead Sherlock to any conclusions, it was already gone.

                The mobile vibrated in his pocket. Sherlock removed it and glanced at the screen. Mycroft sent him a message reminding about the meeting he was due to attend.

                “Ok, so what now?” asked Greg a moment later, coming in. He seemed a bit dumped in the face by all the things he had just heard from John. Unlike Molly, the inspector didn’t know who had shot Sherlock or why exactly the detective had killed Magnussen.

                “I have to meet Mycroft,” winced Sherlock. “See what he got, what they... decided.”

                “I think we’re going home,” decided John, glancing at his wife. Although Mary didn’t say a word, she looked tired. “Molly?”

                “I’m going with Sherlock,” she stated firmly. “Mycroft will have to deal with it.”

                “I don’t think he’ll be pleased, but I don’t mind,” said Sherlock. He missed the look John and Molly shared; a silence agreement that it was better to keep together today, and best not to leave a vulnerable Sherlock alone with his brother, who could have a bad influence on him.

                “Take some clothes for change,” added Molly unexpectedly, surprising Sherlock. “I don’t want to come back here today.”

                “Why would I need... Oh, I see, you want me to sleep at your place,” realized Sherlock. “Why?”

                “Because I’m afraid to be alone today,” admitted Molly honestly. “And I don’t want you to be alone,” she added quietly.

                “Then why don’t you stay here with me?” asked Sherlock. “You can take my bed, I don’t think I will be using it tonight.”

                “And leave you with the couch and that bloody carpet?” replied Molly. “Brrr, no way. Merely thinking about sleeping here tonight gives me shivers.”

                “The police took the carpet, and the blood on the floor is almost invisible,” Sherlock pointed out. “You have no reasons to...”

                “Sherlock, please.”

                “Alright.” The detective gave up. “Mycroft’s people will clean that mess and check the flat, I will come back tomorrow. And I have no clothes here.”

                “So what, shall we go?” asked Molly. “Though you know, I should probably return to work, I just left without a single word...”

                “I will be passing Barts, I will explain what happened,” offered Lestrade. “I think that your boss had a meeting with Mycroft Holmes once and that he was informed about some... inaccuracies in the papers.”

                Molly nodded. After Sherlock came back, there were people at Barts who could bind everything together and suspected Molly had a part in it, considering her... relations with the detective. Mycroft Holmes made sure then, that her boss learned about the fake death certificate Molly Hooper had prepared on the behalf of the secret service, to protect the country from terrorists. The pathologist didn’t know the details of that conversation, but that was what she had come to after a phone call from her boss right after Mycroft had left him. Greg guessed that part correctly and he was right to use it now.

                “Greg, let me know if you come up to anything.”

They all went downstairs, where John stepped back to Mrs. Hudson’s. Ha came back a moment later, handing Molly a spare keys, like he said, just in case.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly was far too optimistic when she thought that Sherlock would spend the whole evening and night at her place, sitting idle on her sofa. Of course, her presence was somehow calming, but it only allowed him to shake off all the feelings and get back to work. Or maybe “shake off” was a bad word. Nevertheless, Sherlock managed to push the emotions away and the fact that Molly was near really helped. From all his closest friends, who were in danger now, Molly was the most vulnerable. Lestrade was a policeman and surely he could organize his day to be as safe as possible, John and Mary were excellent shooters and able to take care of themselves... while the pathologist seemed to have no protection alone in her flat, except for her cat. And just like she admitted she was afraid, Sherlock could think more clearly when he had her near.

And thinking meant he had to act, no matter what Mycroft had said, who had ordered  him to keep a low profile and stay aside. Sherlock felt sick from this idleness, when all his senses were elevated to the highest levels. Moreover, he was still agitated after the meeting with his brother, lady Smallwood and few other people from Mycroft’s milieu.

Even under normal circumstances they weren’t people Sherlock would gladly work with, because every time Mycroft required his help, the work itself turned out to have some stupid limitations. Sometimes he could proceed with investigation, but he absolutely couldn’t get access to the crime scene. Sometimes he would find out who was guilty, and then they would thank him and order him to forget the whole case, or he had to fight for every single detail, as if they thought he could solve their problem with no data. For Sherlock, it was always plain and simple – guilty, evil, end of story. This way to the court, the police station that way. For Mycroft’s ‘friends’ though, it wasn’t that simple, the case was frequently hushed up, the guilty person was free, because they ‘weren’t too dangerous’, or ‘could be useful’.

And right now for all these grey eminences Sherlock Holmes wasn’t even an equal partner to work with, but merely an inconvenient brother of Mycroft, who wasn’t officially executed only because Mycroft Holmes was a valuable worker. Apart from lady Smallwood, whose discreet body language showed gratitude, the rest of them made it clear that it was them who were going to decide about Sherlock’s future. The detective was glad that he had been able to convince Molly to stay in the cafeteria on the grand floor, rather than to accompany him in his brother’s office. He didn’t want to appear vulnerable, as his coming with the pathologist would likely be seen, though Molly would probably feel offended, had she heard that.

The meeting was tiresome. Everyone gave Sherlock their condolences and remained professionally polite, but they didn’t cease the patronizing tone. And they had little to say beside what Sherlock already knew or guessed.

The break-in was made from London, but then they lost track. The best hackers from the secret service were currently working on that matter, but from the way he was informed Sherlock guessed that they didn’t make much progress. He was more interested in working in his own way, but Mycroft informed him in front of everyone that it would be best to keep a low profile. Sherlock was also obliged by his brother to inform him about his every step, and he was not to disappear, as his fate was not yet decided. Remaining calm cost Sherlock a lot, and the only consolation he got was the fact that Mycroft clearly didn’t feel comfortable with confronting his brother in front of his co-workers.

 

Anyway, Sherlock lasted somehow to the end of this meeting, then took his suitcase that Anthea gave him and went back to Molly. He allowed his friend to plan the rest of the day the way she wanted, and when she wasn’t looking, he contacted his network and started working. The game was on, all he had to do was to wait for the results.

xxx

It was strange to share a bed with Sherlock. After months of living with Tom, Molly missed having someone beside her, even, or maybe especially when she had a certain detective, cocooned in a sheet and with his dark locks all around his pillow. Sherlock had used her bedroom several times and he had always slept there alone, but this evening Molly didn’t want to be alone and silently joined him. Sherlock didn’t object. He must have learned something with Janine.

 

Unlike the detective, Molly was glad that Mycroft wanted his brother to keep a low profile and wait what would happen. She was still shaken by the image of what was done to Mrs. Hudson and by the thought that Sherlock was to leave and never come back. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that if she took her eyes of Sherlock, he would disappear and she would never see him again. She felt safer going to sleep next to Sherlock and knowing he would be there at night.

 

The problem was, that the next morning the only proof that Sherlock was there was a creased sheet and  his pyjamas lying on the bathroom floor. The detective’s recent presence was also confirmed by a mug of tea at the kitchen table and an open package of biscuits. The spare key set disappeared from the cupboard at the corridor.

 

It didn’t need a detective to state that Sherlock must have eaten a substitute of breakfast and left, God knows why or where. Molly felt uneasy and grabbed her phone. To her disappointment, there was no text from Sherlock. Well, what exactly did she expect? Certainly not that Sherlock had learnt something from the fright he had gotten yesterday and left her a message where he went.

 

Fortunately, it was enough to call Greg to get some news. The inspector told Molly that Sherlock was tracking the murderers’ car at night using his contacts and that he was about to meet them. Molly calmed down and went back to her morning routine. She decided she had to act normal, or else she would go crazy.

xxx

 

Unusual situation or not, John needed fresh bread for breakfast. Recently Mary was particularly fond of fresh bread, and they got bakery at the next street, so John jumped to buy some. Today he left later than usual, he had called sick at work so he could ensure the safety of his family. He didn’t doubt Mary could handle a problem, should the need occur, but he guessed Sherlock would need his assistance. Whoever tried to imitate Moriarty, the situation was far too serious for John to act as if it didn’t concern him and leave his friend alone. Not after what happened to Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade called just when Mary finished making scrambled eggs. John put away the knife with butter and answered.

                “Yes? What’s going on?” he asked, expecting to hear literally everything. It wasn’t even nine in the morning, and the inspector was already calling.

                _“How are you, everything ok?”_ asked Greg.

                “Yeah, fine,” John reassured him, shrugging his shoulders in a response to Mary’s silent question.

                “ _Can you come at Charterhouse Street? We found that car of the murderers,”_ replied Lestrade. _“I will be calmer if you come.”_

                “Why? Has something happened?” asked John, alarmed.

                _“That car blew up,”_ explained Greg. _“Sherlock was too close, it threw him away a bit. I guess he’s fine, he’s just storming around and being annoying, but he didn’t let us touch him. You know what he’s like, devil knows what to think of him.”_

                “Go.” Mary must have heard the inspector. John didn’t hesitate any longer.

                “Alright. I will be in half an hour,” he promised. He grabbed two toasts, making a sandwich on his way, and packing his first aid kit to his rucksack.

xxx

John learned why Greg had called him as soon as he stepped out of the cab and went through the crowd of onlookers, visibly not discouraged by the awful weather. Sherlock wasn’t storming around, just standing and talking on his phone, but with the blood smeared all over his face he looked rather demonically. The smudges on his forehead and his right cheek proved that he tried to clean himself, but didn’t let anybody help him.

The doctor examined closely his friend and removed a clean gauze and hydrogen peroxide without a single word.

“Get yourself cleaned,” he ordered, as soon as Sherlock stopped talking. When the detective didn’t make any move, John cleaned the blood from his face and an ugly cut on his forehead, while his friend kept looking above his shoulder, deep in thoughts. Only when the doctor wiped the blood near his eye, Sherlock blinked rapidly and stepped back, as if he only realized his friend’s presence.

“Oh, hello, John. What are you doing here?”

“Greg called me and said you could use my presence,” replied John, unceremoniously grabbing Sherlock’s wrists and examining them, looking for injuries when he had a chance. “You keep scaring people looking like that.”

“Not my problem.” Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders. “Why are you not with Mary? Or at work?”

“I called sick,” explained John. „And as you know, Mary can take care of herself, even pregnant.”

“Right...” Sherlock carefully touched the cut on his forehead and then covered it with his hair. “Are you done? Will you leave me alone?”

“Not yet,” denied the doctor. “Greg just told me you were near something that blew up, so don’t grumble and let me see you. Did you black out?”

“I might have dazed for a moment,” admitted Sherlock reluctantly. “But I’m fine, no unwanted symptoms,” he reassured, and John was willing to believe him. Holmes didn’t look like he was dizzy or had troubles concentrating, his pupils reacted properly... Still, the doctor wasn’t satisfied.

“You got some bruises,” stated John more than asked, which earned him an irritated grumble. “Anywhere in particular?”

“John, stop it, I managed far more serious injuries,” snorted Sherlock, and John winced, knowing exactly what he was referring to. “I’m not a child to make a fuss over a bruised knee,” he growled rudely, seeing that John stared at his torn trousers. Greg called him, so Sherlock ignored his friend and went to join him.

“You’re limping.” John pointed out and hastened to join Sherlock.

“It hurts, so I guess it’s normal reaction.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders again. “Stop fussing, I’m busy!” he growled and sighed in irritation when he heard his text alert. He read the message and froze.

“Sherlock?” asked the doctor, alarmed. The detective showed him his phone in response. “Oh, fuck,” sighed John.

_I was kidnapped._

There was Mycroft’s name above the message. John glanced at his friend, but if he expected some kind of emotional display, he could be disappointed. Sherlock just seemed to be angry.

The phone rang. Sherlock answered at the first ring and turned on the speakerphone.

“Yes? What the hell is this?”

 _“I will make it short.”_ Mycroft’s voice was calm and showed only disgust. _“I was asked to inform you about the situation.”_

John could almost see Mycroft Holmes in his perfect suit, standing with a gun by his head and emotionlessly telling his brother what he was forced to say.

“That’s it?” asked Sherlock, as calm as his brother. ”And what am I supposed to do with that?”

 _“I suppose you have to find me, little brother.”_ There was mockery in Mycroft’s voice now. How on Earth could they both be so calm? John and Greg glanced at each other, uneasy.

“Are you alone? Are there any other hostages?” asked Lestrade.

 _“I’m afraid I cannot answer that question, inspector.”_ Mycroft had no trouble guessing who else was listening, apart from Sherlock.

“Any clues?”

 _“It’s a game, like in Yorkshire,”_ said Mycroft calmly. _“Somebody wants to play with you, but you don’t want to. John, are you there as well? Watch out for your hand tremor,”_ he added unexpectedly and the call was finished.

“What the hell was that?” asked Sally, who was close enough to hear the end of the conversation. Mycroft’s last sentence didn’t make much sense. Lestrade and John were as clueless as she was, but Sherlock suddenly smiled in approval.

“I thought he forgot about that,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “There are four kidnappers and no other hostages, at least not in the same place.

“What?” asked Lestrade in disbelief. “How do you know that?”

“Game in Yorkshire,” replied Sherlock as if it explained everything. “Never mind. What time is it?”

“Almost half past ten,” answered John. “Why?”

Sherlock wasn’t listening, busy dialing some number. Using the moment, John wrote a text to Mary, and then another to Molly, asking them both to be careful.

“Mycroft was supposed to be at Diogenes Club at nine,” explained Sherlock, having ended a short call. “I checked, he never got there. Why did he have to take a walk today...”

“I’m sorry, what?” asked John. “What do you mean?”

“You can always blame the weather,” added Sherlock, making John and Greg understand even less.

“Sherlock, care to talk human to us?” Lestrade lost patience. “We can’t read your mind.”

“Can’t you see all the mess on the streets? The traffic jam is twice as bad as usual,” explained the detective in irritated tone. Seeing that his friends were still clueless, he rolled his eyes and started walking around, gesticulating widely. “There was a car accident near the club, Mycroft’s car must have stuck in the traffic. And my brother must have been in a hurry if he thought he would be more quickly by foot. Knowing his reluctance to walk around the city, I think it couldn’t be that far from the club.”

“So... we will be able to tell where he was kidnapped,” finished John. “It’s a start.”

Meanwhile, Greg made a quick call and confirmed that there was a car accident at Regent Street that paralyzed the traffic.

 “Lestrade, make use of that car of yours,” demanded Sherlock. “I need to get to Diogenes Club and talk to Anthea.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The Diogenes Club witnessed probably the biggest commotion in all the history of its existence. There weren’t many people at this early hour, but those who wanted to work in peace like Mycroft did, stood at the corridor and discussed the matter rather vividly.

Also Anthea, who Sherlock had contacted on their way, waited for them at the corridor. The usually professional and composed woman was visibly moved by the whole situation.

“What do you already know?” asked Sherlock, not even bothering to greet her.

Mycroft’s PA was accompanied by two men in suits, one of which Sherlock recognized as his brother’s driver. The other must have been from the security.

“Mycroft Holmes was taken from the street about three hundred meters from us.” At the sight of the younger Holmes, Anthea composed herself and went to business. “I just saw two men catching him and dragging away on the side street. We were stuck in traffic, they jumped to their car and drove away.”

“Did you try to follow them?” asked Lestrade. “Do you have anything? Car brand, numbers, color, anything?”

“I got out of our car as soon as I noticed what’s going on, but it was too far,” replied Anthea. “Before I managed to run between the cars, they were gone. But yes, I’ve got numbers.”

Further conversation was interrupted by another agent in suit, who came straight to Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes, the car is waiting,” he said. “My employers demanded your presence.”

“For God’s sake, now?” growled Sherlock. “I’m busy.”

“It’s about your brother, sir,” added the agent. “I won’t accept refusal.”

“So much about English subtleness,” muttered the detective. He knew that in his current state he had no other choice but to obey, but that meeting was the last thing he wanted or have time to attend to.

“One moment.” John grabbed his arm as Sherlock moved, ready to get in the car. “Anthea, do you know him? Can you confirm he’s one of your men?”

“Yes, that’s Peter Andrews, lady Smallwood’s driver,” confirmed Mycroft’s PA. “Don’t worry, doctor Watson.”

John nodded in agreement, trusting Anthea. Sherlock had to admit that his friend’s concern was well justified. It wasn’t even noon and they were already stressed.

“I’m going with you,” said the doctor, for which Sherlock was silently grateful. He always worked better with John.

“I was to take only Mr. Holmes,” protested Andrews.

“You also heard doctor Watson, he’s coming with me,” stated Sherlock, grabbing John by his elbow and guiding him to the car.

 

“Greg?” called John before they went, seeing that the inspector had just finished talking on his phone.

“You two go, we will start looking for the kidnappers,” replied Lestrade. “Anthea... Can I call you that?” he asked apologetically, realizing that the woman didn’t introduce herself.

“Sure, everybody does.” Anthea shrugged her shoulders. “Mr. Holmes had his umbrella with him,” she added suddenly. “I think we should start with that.”

“I’m sorry?” Greg stared questioningly at Sherlock, as if awaiting an explanation what kind of Holmes eccentricity was it this time.

“GPS transmitter.” Sherlock took pity of him. “Let me know if you get anything.”

***

Even without looking at his watch Sherlock knew, _felt_ how much time he was wasting. First it was twenty minutes of car ride, then a quarter of waiting before everybody gathered. Another few minutes the detective wasted on trying to persuade them that John Watson worked with him and he would know all the details from the meeting anyway, including top secret ones, so excluding him was utterly pointless. The discussion was cut by John, who told Sherlock he would wait if it meant to save some time.

That indeed finished the problem of wrangling with Mycroft’s co-workers, but left Sherlock even more annoyed. He came reluctantly to the conference room and had a seat by the oval table. He glanced at the others; the same faces he had seen the previous evening. Home Office minister, lady Smallwood, Deputy Prime Minister and the other two, whose profession Sherlock didn’t bother to acknowledge.

“Ehkm... Mr. Holmes, I presume you already know why you were asked to come,” started the Deputy Prime Minister.

Only the awareness that showing his disregard and irritation would extend this meeting stopped Sherlock from snorting and rolling his eyes. Diplomacy was never something he cared about or have patience for. But if they had to keep pretence and claim he was asked here, not ordered to come, so be it, Sherlock wasn’t going to argue over the choice of words. Just let them say what they want and go back to work.

“Mister Holmes, we are aware that the current situation is personal to you.” The Deputy Prime Minister said again, and when Sherlock didn’t answer to that remark as well, he cleared his throat and continued. “Mycroft Holmes values your skills in certain areas, but we cannot forget that...”

Sherlock went on semi-permanent mute and started filtering the words to save himself additional frustration.. Yes, he was aware that his skills and readiness for legwork served Mycroft more than once. Of course, he didn’t need a reminder that his situation hadn’t changed since yesterday. And yes, he wanted to shout, he knew it wasn’t going to improve if they didn’t find Mycroft.

There was only one valuable information Sherlock heard among all that diplomatic babbling – Mycroft’s co-workers had their secret service ready and the younger Holmes gained full access to their findings through Anthea. Sherlock expected nothing less, but it was good to get an official statement.

Finally Sherlock hissed through his clenched teeth that he was grateful for any help, but if they could excuse him, he would gladly start searching for his brother instead of wasting time for idle talk. He could argue with his brother on daily basis, he could refuse working for him out of pure defiance, but he certainly wasn’t going to inform their parents that they had only one son. And if he didn’t want to do that, he had to start working.

Fortunately, they got his allusion. Sherlock stood up and left as soon as the man left to lady Smallwood articulated his thanks for his time.

John was waiting on the corridor, leaning against the windowsill and looking at something at his phone.

“John?” The concern on his friend’s face alarmed Sherlock at once.

“Come and see.” The doctor gave him his phone. “Someone hacked my blog.”

“That someone was able to hack every station in this country, I don’t think your blog was any kind of hardship to them,” Sherlock pointed out and took the phone. The note with today’s date wasn’t long.

_You did miss me, didn’t you, Sherlock? It was so much fun, let’s play together again. Watching you dance is soooo fascinating. Let’s raise the price, what do you say?_

“I’m sure whoever wrote that, they had my materials from Baker Street.” Sherlock stopped reading and glanced at his friend. “They used expressions from the talks with the hostages.”

“Yes, I remember,” nodded John. “Do you think you’ll get a phone call any time now? To watch you _dance._ ” The doctor spat the last word with disgust.

„I already had a call, and they got the hostage,” replied Sherlock absent-mindedly. “Mycroft said I have to find him,” he raised his head. “He was certainly forced to call me, but no one said the exact words he was to pass to me. I guess he was given the general idea of what he should say, and then allowed to play it the way he wanted.”

 “Do you think that the kidnapper, whoever it is, finds playing with two Holmes more amusing than just with you? And so they allowed Mycroft to talk?”

“Possibly,” agreed Sherlock. “If they want to see me work, and they’re going to let me find my brother, they might have thought it funny that Mycroft will certainly try to help me.”

“So, what do we know?”

Sherlock went back to the note. The person who wrote it was trying to imitate Moriarty’s style, basing mainly on the transcriptions of the conversations with the hostages. If the situation wasn’t already so serious, Sherlock would have been disappointed that his enemy didn’t bother to think of something new. Though seeing what had already happened, Sherlock really didn’t want to know the edges of their creativity.

“So, what do we do?” asked John again, seeing that his friend remained silent.

“We need to check how many of the clues Mycroft gave us can lead us to him,” replied Sherlock, shaking his head as if to get rid of too many thoughts.

“The Yorkshire game? What was that?”

“A memory from our holidays,” explained the detective. “Back then Mycroft was kidnapped and forced o play. There were three other children ready to play pirates and we needed an enemy. Of course, Mycroft was too big and too serious to play with us, so we had to... force him.” The corners of Sherlock’s mouth went slightly up.

“Ok, so what does it give us?”

“We were then in a house next to a lake. If Mycroft was trying to give me a clue about the place...”

“It’s January,” John pointed out. “People in a place like that would certainly attract attention.”

“His remark could as easily concern a lake in general, or as I said before, the number of the kidnappers, or it’s not about a holiday house at all, but something reminded Mycroft of that... Ugh, it’s too many possibilities!” Sherlock growled in frustration.

“So why don’t we try step by step?” suggested John. “We can involve Mary, as soon as she knows what to look for, she could do some research for us... Anyway, it’s better than sitting and wondering.”

“Alright. I’m calling Greg, maybe they’ve got something.”

***

The following hours were mostly filled with struggling in the traffic jam, while they moved from one part of London to another. Even the police car with the lights on couldn’t move easily around. Mary indeed did some research for them and suggested where they could try looking, but they didn’t succeed.

Tracking Mycroft’s mobile was a failure as well; the kidnappers were smart enough to disrupt the signal, enabling to find the phone.

The most promising track was the GPS transmitter in Mycroft’s umbrella. While Sherlock was stuck at the meeting, Lestrade and Anthea got the signal moving around London and started chasing it. They followed the signal for another hour and they hoped they would get something. When they finally reached the signal’s source, it turned out that someone had dropped Mycroft’s umbrella in a public bus, giving Sherlock and the police something pointless to follow. The bus driver, astonished and nervous from the fact that a police car stopped him in the middle of the road, couldn’t say who had left that umbrella.

After that failure Anthea came back to her people to continue searching for the kidnappers’ car and to check whether the secret service got something from CCTV. Sherlock, John and Greg checked some places that could potentially fit the clues Sherlock got from mentioning Yorkshire. It was about three o’clock, when they decided that continuing that way was pointless. Because the kidnappers remained silent, neither calling nor leaving messages on John’s blog, they all went back to Scotland Yard, to regroup and work on some plan.

They sat in Greg’s office along with Sally, Sherlock marking the places they had already been to on a big map of London pinned to the wall. The lack of contact was waging them and they all fought with their anxiety to keep the atmosphere bearable.

So when the phone’s screen brightened, Sherlock answered the call before he heard the first ringtone, and turned on the speakerphone.

“Mycroft?”

 _“You’re late, little brother,”_ they heard in response. _“Six hour passed.”_

“Who said anything about time limit? What is this game?” asked Sherlock impatiently, allowing himself to show his frustration. “Who plays with me and why?”

 _“Never mind, who,”_ said suddenly an unfamiliar, male voice. _“You’re losing.”_

„Mycroft? Are you in there?”

_„Don’t do anything stup...”_

 To everyone’s horror Mycroft’s voice died in a shot rang. Sherlock jumped backwards, almost dropping his phone in shock. Before anyone could react, the man in the phone spoke again.

_“You lost, Holmes.”_

The call was finished. Lestrade and John glanced at each other in horror, then at Sherlock, who kept staring at his phone. Then the detective put it into his pocket and went to the door lethargically.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said to nobody in particular, because sergeant Donovan stood on his way. John was first to recover.

“Where are you going?”

“I said ‘excuse me’,” repeated Sherlock aggressively and forced Sally to let him go. He shut the door behind him.

“Oh shit...”

“John, go after him,” said Lestrade. There was nothing but concern in his voice. “We will try to track that phone,” he added quietly.

John didn’t need that reminding. Mycroft, Sherlock’s big brother, had been most likely just killed. The doctor rushed through the corridor, looking for his friend. Whatever Sherlock would say, however he would deny it, his brother’s death left him deeply shaken. John thought about the evening when Sherlock had learned about Irene Adler’s supposed death. Mycroft had told him that he could have a dangerous night. John had learned at his own wedding night, what it meant. He was certainly going to watch Sherlock and not in this world leave him alone.


	5. Chapter 5

John found him one floor below. Sherlock stood at the end of the corridor and played nervously with a pack of cigarettes he must have just bought in a machine.

“I lost. He promised, and I failed,” said Sherlock, not even looking at his friend.

“Promised what?” John didn’t understand.

“It was a day before I left to school.” Sherlock suddenly started talking after a moment of silence. His gaze was locked in some point far away, his face emotionless, like always when he referred to something dear to him. John wasn’t even sure if Sherlock was aware of his presence, or if he was just talking to himself. The cigarette the detective was smoking was strong; he must have bought the strongest he had found. “Mum asked us both to come to her and obliged Mycroft in my presence to look after me. You don’t just forget such things.”

“How old were you?” That was the first question that came to John’s mind. Sherlock was clearly recollecting some event from his past, important to him and his brother. John never thought his friend could open so much.

“I was seven, he was fourteen. And he promised to protect me. Always. He saw it rather strangely, but he usually succeeded,” admitted Sherlock honestly, his voice almost breaking, but then frowned. Uncertainty appeared in his voice, along with sorrow. “I should be grateful for that, shouldn’t I?”

“Yeah, I think so,” John nodded carefully. He wasn’t sure how to act, but if Sherlock calmed himself with these memories...

 _Seven years is an age when you think you can fly, though your wings are still too small._ That was all John remembered from his own childhood at that age. Adding to this Sherlock’s current behavior and the fact, that as a kid he must have understood even less from social interactions than now and his perceptivity didn’t exactly help, John got the main idea. A kid, suddenly thrown among other children after being only with his older, equally strange brother for years... It wasn’t hard to imagine, though when Sherlock was quite easy to picture as a kid, Mycroft always looked like he had skipped that trivial time of childhood and growing up.

“He understood me then,” added Sherlock after a while. “It wasn’t so easy later.”

“He tried,” said John carefully. His friend tensed and stepped away. He lighted another cigarette from the remains of the previous one, but didn’t oppose when the doctor took away the rest.

“John, do not try to tell me it’s not my fault,” Sherlock attacked. “I failed and there is nothing you can do about it.”

The half smoked cigarette fell from between his fingers. John instinctively quenched it with his shoe, before it made a hole in the floor. Sherlock, no longer having something to keep, gripped and loosened his fingers in nervous gesture. John observed him discreetly. He didn’t want to cross his friend’s intimacy more than Sherlock allowed him, so he just stood nearby. He knew it was enough for Sherlock. And he understood what was the main problem. Mycroft had promised to keep an eye on his brother and he did. Sherlock, the younger one, wasn’t obliged, but now he felt that promise should have worked both sides. And he failed.

„I will find him,” said Sherlock. He seemed to be composed, but his pale blue eyes were frozen in fury. It wasn’t sentiment, realized John, it was pure revenge.

“Hey! You mustn’t smoke here!” called some policeman after them; John didn’t even realize someone had come close to them.

“Oh, shut up,” he growled and followed Sherlock. He threw the cigarettes into his pocket in case they were needed. He wasn’t going to deny Sherlock anything today. When they went back, John watched his friend closely. Sherlock was still working on adrenaline, but John already saw first signs that it wasn’t going to last long. He was limping more, though he would probably never admit that, and during the last hours he had sat down suddenly a few times without a single word of comment. And now Mycroft... John did hope they would find him. The thought that he had just died was terrible, but if they didn’t find his body... John feared that Sherlock would refuse to  move on and kept searching for his brother. The brothers weren’t particularly close, but Mycroft was a part of safe, known world to Sherlock. And he would be missed.

Lestrade bumped on them at the stairs. He had his jacket on one arm and his phone by his ear.

“We’ve got him,” he said to Sherlock, who turned around in one swift move, dragging John behind. “Yeah, we’re coming,”  he added to the phone and hung up.

“Did you track the phone?” asked Sherlock insistently. “Where is it?”

“In some empty hangar at south by the river... Sherlock?” Lestrade grabbed him by his arm before they got into the police car. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock hesitated just for a moment.

“No,” he admitted honestly. “It’s irritating.”

“What is?”

“I have no condition at all! A moment of working, a bit of walking and I’m utterly useless!”

“No wonder,” replied John. “You can’t expect to be back in form in three weeks after one and half a month of hospitalization.”

“I know. And it’s irritating,” muttered Sherlock and pulled his arm from the inspector’s grip. John gestured to Greg that he would try to take care of that and sat down in the backseat.

He didn’t have a chance to try during the way. Whenever he said something, Sherlock just kept ignoring him, his gaze locked away. John could almost see the pinions working in his brain, his long fingers drumming subconsciously against the car door showed restlessness. Finally John decided that his friend wasn’t going to listen to him now, so he just stared through the window. He called Mary, who demanded to tell her where they were going. John tried to object, but she was determined to join them, so he just told her the address.

Because Mary had much shorter distance to make, she was already waiting for them when they got there. It wasn’t her, though, that drew John’s attention, but an empty storage house.

“Jesus!” he groaned. Now he understood.

“John?”

“Hand tremor, I should have known!” John hit the seat helplessly. Sherlock kept staring at him, clueless, a rare view. Maybe at some other time John would feel satisfaction, but certainly not now.

“John?”

“When I met Mycroft first, he kidnapped me to a similar looking place,” explained the doctor in muffled voice. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ “Of course, he had all the information about me, including my therapist’s diary. Damn! Mycroft gave us a clue where to look for him and I missed it!”

“We all did,” added Lestrade. “John, don’t...”

“Just stop it,” hissed Sherlock and the silence fell immediately. The detective’s gritted mouth were just one, thin line. Watching him, John thought for a moment that his friend would break, but his face remained an emotionless mask.

Two police cars stopped at the empty place. The logic suggested to be careful, though the kidnappers were probably long gone, but Sherlock just stepped from the car as soon as it stopped and went straight to the entrance. The policemen split to check the other side of the building and Greg followed the detective. John was forced to wait for Mary, who wasn’t going to stay idly by their car, though the pregnancy made her slow and clumsy. The doctor took his gun from her with silent approval, grateful for Greg’s blindness in that matter.

The storage house was empty, long forgotten, dark and filthy. Dusted skylights gave little light.

“A phone,” said Sherlock and picked it from the floor. “Mycroft’s,” he added. He examined it closely and creased his eyebrows as if something was wrong. He kept watching the floor in searching for tracks. Then Sherlock straightened fast and John steadied him, as he seemed to have lost balance. At the same time, Lestrade went a bit further.

“Sherlock, in here...”

The detective joined him in a few steps and froze. There, in a spot of light, a silhouette of man tied to a chair was visible. The posture matched, as did the suit... There was just no blood.

“Nobody would gag a corpse,” said Sherlock indifferently and moved forward. Then he stopped suddenly, so John almost fell on him. “Something is not right...”

“What the hell?” asked Lestrade, confused. “What kind of kidnappers act like that?”

“Damn. The ones who just want to draw attention from something,” cursed Sherlock. “We let them mislead us.”

“You mean all these clues? The ones that made no sense?” guessed the inspector.

Sherlock nodded his head.

“Mycroft?” he called. The man on the chair moved, and John got the impression that Sherlock sighed in relief. The detective came a bit closer so he wouldn’t have to shout, but he kept distance. The way the elder Holmes was left looked too much like a trap.

“Is there something we should worry about?” asked Sherlock.

Mycroft nodded.

“Do you know, what?”

Another nod.

“Can I come closer?”

This time the elder Holmes hesitated before answering.

“Carefully? Very carefully?”

A nod.

Sherlock glanced at his companions and moved forward, keeping his eyes locked in his brother. Mycroft shook his head once and the detective immediately changed his route. Finally he leaned over his brother. Trying to touch him as little as possible, he removed the gag. Mycroft coughed.

“Don’t move me,” he warned in a rough voice. “Or we will all blow up,” he informed them emotionlessly. Sherlock cut his ties even more carefully.

“What?!” Greg was the least ready person for such revelations.

“Well, it would be too easy,” muttered Sherlock to himself.

“Detonator, am I right?” asked Mary. As much as her belly allowed her, she leaned forward to have a better look on the cables going from the chair.

“When I get up, we will have fifteen seconds until that hangar blows up,” explained Mycroft. “Or that’s what they said.”

“Oh my God,” groaned John. The nightmare all over again...

“I’m calling anti-terrorists,” said Lestrade immediately. “We will find these explosives.”

“It’s no use, Greg. If you move one, the others will blow up,” said Mary. “You would have to switch them off simultaneously...“ Mycroft sent her an intrigued look and the woman stopped. The elder Holmes looked at his wrists and the red marks from the rope, but Sherlock glanced at Mary with visible discomfort.

“Mary, get out. Now,” he hissed.

“Why?”

“Because you are pregnant.”

“So?” retorted Mary, but all the four men looked at her exactly the same way.

“So you are increasing the level of stress and it can cause a fatal mistake,” growled Sherlock, “John, get your wife away from here. Right now.”

“He’s right, Mary,” John agreed with Sherlock. “If you say this place can blow up any moment now, I’m not going to let you be inside.”

“Be careful,” sighed Mary and left with John.

“Mycroft, are you ok?” asked Greg, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t do that.

“Yes, of course he’s alright,” replied Sherlock instead of his brother. “Can’t you see?”

The inspector just rolled his eyes and glanced at the elder Holmes, who nodded reassuringly. Yeah, everything was fine except the fact that it was better for Mycroft not to get up.

“Fifteen second, right?” asked Sherlock, judging the distance to the doors. “We will have to hurry.”

“Oh no, Sherlock,” objected the inspector firmly. “I know what you are thinking about and the answer is no. We will wait for sappers,  they will disarm it even if it means we wait here till morning. I will not let you play pyrotechnics here.”

“The inspector is right, brother dear.” Mycroft emphasized his words with an ironic smile. “Now do leave.”

“Make me.” Sherlock gave his brother a defiant look. “I’m staying. Even till morning.”

“Sherlock, get out from here,” hissed Mycroft in irritation. “I don’t want to see you here. You increase the level of stress,” he quoted Sherlock.

Greg cursed. Sherlock was the last person who should help Mycroft and wander around the bomb’s cables, but the inspector understood that this case was personal for Sherlock since his brother had been kidnapped. His friend was exceptionally resistant to physical fatigue, something still incomprehensible to him, so the inspector hoped silently that they would go without incidents that could blow them up.

It was Greg’s hopeful wish that Sherlock stayed in one place, but of course the detective started wandering around the chair, finding another parts of bomb. He found a piece of paper, some part of a scheme on an empty wooden box, next to a counter. Uninterested in electronics, he focused on the scheme. In a meanwhile, Greg called for support.

“If only I could find...” started Sherlock after examining the paper for a while and made a step towards his companions, but at the same moment his bad knee buckled under him. The detective grabbed the box to regain balance, but the sudden movement made the counter fell on the floor. It shone with bright red numbers.

The three men glanced at each other with determination. Start.

Fifteen...

Mycroft rose from the chair, Sherlock grabbed his hand, already running, Greg caught him from the other side.

Fourteen...

Thirteen...

Greg and Sherlock dragged Mycroft, forcing him to run faster. The elder Holmes never seemed to have good condition, but now he was also stiff from the hours of sitting motionless.

Twelve...

Eleven...

Lestrade shouted at them urgently. Sherlock wasn’t dragging his brother any more, he rather forced himself to keep pace.

Ten...

Nine...

Suddenly it was Mycroft who tightened his grip, feeling that his younger brother started slowing him down. They were still far from the exit...

Eight...

Seven...

Mycroft fought with his stiff legs, Sherlock limped visibly. As much as it was possible, Greg kept glancing at him, not knowing if Sherlock wasn’t going to be the one needing help. Just get out...

Six...

Five...

The adrenaline in his body stopped. Sherlock stumbled and fell, almost dragging Mycroft behind him.

Four...

Greg released Mycroft and together they rose Sherlock. The detective went on, supported from both sides.

Three...

Two...

Mycroft surprisingly kept up, but the all slowed down. _It’s too far,_ noted Greg desperately.

One...

Sherlock fell again. They all froze.


	6. Chapter 6

Nothing happened.

The surprise was so sudden that for a second or two they all stood motionless waiting for the explosion, before they forced Sherlock to get up and hurried outside. They reached the police cars more slowly.  Sherlock leaned against the nearest car without a word, trying to get a grip. Mycroft, not less breathless than his brother, just stood stiffly and shrugged imaginary dust from his sleeve.

The Watsons stood there, astonished, and John seemed to be too furious to utter a word. He was far too calm to mean anything good.

“It didn’t blow up,” said Sherlock when he regained his breath.

“And if it did, we would all be dead,” spat John, irritated by his friend’s rashness. “Have you all gone mad? I thought you would call for back-up, not act with foolish bravado!”

“Why are you saying that to me?” objected Sherlock.

“Am I wrong?” retorted John. His friend’s expression was enough answer for him. “Think better next time, you’re supposed to be the clever one in here!” he hissed and went to Mary and Greg who was talking on his phone. As soon as the inspector finished talking, John scolded him as well, but Sherlock ignored it. he opened the back door and slipped into the car.

Mycroft came closer to his brother. He hesitated, but touched him. Sherlock shook when Mycroft’s hand briefed his sweaty curls from his forehead and his fingers stopped for a moment at the cut surrounded with purple bruise. The detective looked up into his brother’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted quietly and closed the door, forcing Mycroft to take back his hand. The older Holmes nodded his head, having understood the meaning. ‘ _I’m sorry for being late.’_ But also ‘ _I’m glad you’re alive’._

“Water?” offered sergeant Donovan suddenly. She had a bottle of water and plastic cups in her hands. Mycroft bit his lip to hide his disgust.

“Yes, please.” His throat was still sore from gag and physical effort, so he accepted the cup.

“Hey, Freak?” asked Sally involuntarily and then glanced at Mycroft, who played deaf, busy with his water.

 Sherlock must have heard her through the doors, but didn’t react. The sergeant opened them and offered him second cup along with some little box of pills.

“What’s that for?”

“You look like you might need them. Take two, drink it all,” replied Sally, her tone suggesting that she would rather do something else. “Your doctor’s wife’s orders,” she added sarcastically. Sherlock winced, hearing that description.

“What’s this?” he asked, not even looking at the box.

“Just paracetamol.”

“I would rather take my cigarettes,” muttered the detective, but accepted the pills and water.

“I don’t think so,” snorted Sally and walked away.

“Cigarettes?” asked Mycroft with disapproval. This was a part of their usual teasing. Sherlock would ask him about his diet and Mycroft would sometimes retort with question how was his quitting addiction going. Surprisingly, it usually gave him some time of peace. Christmas smoking in the garden was a special exception.

“John already took them.”

“Good.”

“I deserved them,” hissed Sherlock suddenly and shut the door again, this time almost smashing his brother’s fingers.

Mycroft didn’t insist on continuing this pointless conversation. If he got it right, Sherlock was trying to sort it all on his own. So instead of staying with his brother, the elder Holmes joined doctor Watson.

 

John was leaning against his car, where Mary was sitting on driver’s seat. He was calm, at least as calm as one could be when his brothers in arms had acted extremely foolishly. He really would have to have a talk at least with Sherlock about the consequences his actions may bring on people around them.

“Sherlock told me about the cigarettes,” said Mycroft and leaned nonchalantly on his umbrella someone had given him back a moment ago.

“Erm... yes...” John removed the pack from his pocket and handed it to Mycroft. “You want some?”

“I don’t smoke,” Mycroft reminded him in an offended voice. It was better not to mention the exceptions.

John laughed.

“And you don’t frequent cafes, yes, I do remember,” he replied, but then went serious. “Sherlock does care about you in his own way.”

“Oh, really?” Mycroft’s tone suggested he didn’t believe.

“When we thought you were shot dead, Sherlock... He surprised me,” admitted John. “He mentioned the promise you were forced to make. And he felt guilty of your death,” he finished awkwardly. He didn’t really know why he told Mycroft all that.

Mycroft left all the irony which still kept him, and which John classified as a side-effect reaction to stress, though the elder Holmes could be as well playing one of his games and have a certain goal to achieve. His eyes had the same expression John had seen earlier in Sherlock’s.

“He did trust me then,” admitted Mycroft. “Maybe because I alone could stand him.”

“He said something similar,” said John carefully.

“And did he tell you what came next?” asked Mycroft violently, surprising the doctor. “About me finding him sleeping in my bed for the next two weeks, refusing to attend classes where, as he kept saying, ‘no one wanted him’? But you know, he was easier to get along then. He was nosy and he was driving me crazy, but he was just a kid after all, a kid that could be forgiven, excused.” Mycroft glanced at the police car, where Sherlock leaned against the back seat as if he was asleep.

John followed the Holmes’ gaze and they must have both thought about the same thing. A man in his thirties acting like a petulant child was not so easy to excuse.

“You changed him,” stated Mycroft. “Some time ago...”

“Yes?”

“Three, four years back and Sherlock wouldn’t even glance back if I died,” said Mycroft dispassionately. “He cared about nothing but that work of his.” The word ‘work’ he spat out with disgust.

“What is this, the day of Holmes’ confessions?” blurted John. He knew he was the one who had started this subject, but he wasn’t going to listen Mycroft’s half disgusted, half ironical remarks about Sherlock and his social life, also because he seemed to not know his younger brother. John had every proofs he needed that Sherlock had a small circle of friends and if anyone would try to touch any of them, they would regret it deeply. Mycroft should remember about that, it was his colleague from CIA who ended up flying from the window.

“What else did Sherlock say?” Mycroft got interested; he ignored John’s question.

 “Nothing you should concern yourself with.”

“Oh, really?”

“We’re done.” John just shrugged his shoulders. He long stopped having any kind of respect for Mycroft that concerned his nondescript, though high position in British government. He had lost it when the elder Holmes had involved Sherlock with Irene Adler. At the thought that he once wore a suit to meet him, John still wanted to laugh mockingly at himself.

“I will insist.” There were warning tones in Mycroft’s voice, but John ignored them. He knew which side he was on and even if his own curiosity made him start that topic, he wasn’t going to continue this conversation.

“As for a diplomat, you surprisingly need the same lesson Sherlock needs,” he commented. “You seem not to notice when somebody tells you ‘no’”, he pointed and turned around, not waiting for a response he really didn’t care to hear. He calmed himself down so he could talk to his friend without shouting at him. Mary must not have been so sure, as she joined him.

Sherlock still sat, leaning against the back seat and pressing hands to his temples. When John opened the door, he detective winced.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The younger Holmes shook his head, but judging from his expression, it wasn’t the best idea.

“No bullshit,” warned John, suggesting it wasn’t wise to annoy him.

Sherlock glanced at him with pained expression and answered with disgust.

“My migraine just reached unacceptable point,” he muttered and closed his eyes.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” asked John with reproach. In his dusted suit and with eyes covered with hand Sherlock really looked worse for wear.

“Because it was bearable earlier,” replied the detective logically. “Right now I can’t think straight...”

The Watsons exchanged glances. No wonder Sherlock went down from the adrenaline he had been functioning on for the last twenty four hours. Though he didn’t express his joy that his brother was alive, they all knew he sighed in relief seeing Mycroft was well.

“Do you need anything?” asked Mary. “You don’t look like working now.”

“No,” agreed the detective. “Are you going home?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” confirmed John. “We don’t have much to do in here, it’s wet and it’s getting dark, and Mary is hungry. Greg will surely take care of your brother. Will you eat with us?”

“No, not now,” muttered Sherlock. “John... just drop me at Baker Street.”

John left it to Mary to explain to Sherlock that he had to get into their car, and joined Greg and Mycroft, where just came another car, a black limousine. Anthea stepped out of it, professionally indifferent, followed by a bald man John had seen in the morning when he was accompanying Sherlock. Mycroft nodded to Anthea, probably sending her more information with that gesture than John could deduce, and shook the man’s hand. The doctor sought for a moment the name of this man. Matthew Wilberforth, Deputy Home Office minister.

“I hope, Mycroft, that you didn’t suffer much inconvenience through these hours,” said Wilberforth.

“Oh, I would almost say it was boring, if I hadn’t spent entire afternoon watching three morons trying to set a bomb, not knowing how to do that,” replied Mycroft with a sneer, confirming John’s suspicions that irony was the elder Holmes’ defense system. “All I need now is to get back to my office.”

“Mycroft, wait,” interrupted the doctor. “Did you take any food or drink from them?”

“If you’re asking whether I was drugged in any way that could blur my memories and affect my testimony I guess the detective inspector is dying to get from me, I assure you I was not,” replied Mycroft coldly. He made no impression on John, who was used to dealing with Sherlock.

“I will insist. You were put under a lot of stress and even if you think now you remember everything, you might have some holes in memory you are not aware of. Simple tests should confirm that,” said John firmly. “Greg, will you see to that?”

“Sure, I already called for ambulance, should be any minute now.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” sighed Mycroft with disgust.

“Forgive me if we won’t risk you were given something that will come out later when we won’t be prepared,” growled John, glancing at Mary and Sherlock, who were sitting now in Watsons’ car. Mycroft followed his gaze and nodded reluctantly that he agrees.

“Where are you going?” asked Lestrade.

“Home. Sherlock looks like he’s got enough and I’m going to use that while he’s willing to cooperate,” replied John and shared meaning look with Greg; forcing Sherlock to rest while he was on a case was usually impossible, so when he freely admitted he wasn’t feeling well it was good to make him get a few hours of decent sleep.

“Tell him Mycroft’s interview will be tomorrow due to the tests, so he won’t miss anything.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

If it was just his choice, his foot would have never stepped in that door. John might have thought that this kind of loyalty should be flattering to  Sherlock, but that fan club was simply pathetic and pretentious. One glance during his first visit was enough for the detective to place that group somewhere between hysterical teenage fangirls and mutual admiration circle. And all the theories concerning his survival he had heard were one more stupid than other. Sherlock was even surprised no one involved UFO, wizards or some other superpowers from the most popular fantasy worlds. But then again, what else could he expect when the fanclub was made by Anderson? Pardon, _Philip_ , Sherlock corrected himself with disgust, because Anderson insisted on calling him by first name. The former policeman always called him Sherlock and he was so proud and happy with this acquaintance that Holmes almost missed being called Freak. He couldn’t decide what was worse – that idiot of a technician who had doubted his every word, or a schizophrenic fan with blind admiration in his eyes. John had suggested once with humor that Sherlock should provide his fanclub with  photos with his signature. There was a slight chance that all these people would die of joy, but after considering pros and cons Sherlock decided not to check whether it would work or not.

 Irritating or not, the club members proved to be useful, especially when it came to checking something online; on the fieldwork his homeless network was still irreplaceable. So Sherlock did go to Anderson once his headache became bearable. He hadn’t lied much to John when he had acted completely exhausted. His bruised knee begged for some rest and had made it quite difficult for Sherlock to change in some clean trousers.

The doors were open, so the detective went straight to the living room, where Anderson was sitting along with four other members of the fanclub. Sherlock remembered only Martha, Philip’s wife, by name; she seemed to be least stupid in that company.

                “Sherlock!” Anderson almost visibly lightened up at his sight.

                “Go away, all of you,” growled the detective, pointing at the others. “We need to talk.”

                “You c-can talk in their presence,” objected Anderson weakly.

                “No, I can’t,” cut Sherlock shortly. “Go away, now.”

Martha took the company and left, closing the doors behind them. Anderson stood up from his chair by his desk.

                “Talk,” hissed Sherlock angrily as soon as they were alone. He was tired and didn’t want to play any subtleties.

“Sherlock, but... but what’s the matter?” stuttered Anderson, surprised.

“My brother was kidnapped and someone tried to eliminate us.” Sherlock was almost shouting now. He calmed himself a bit, leaned forward to Anderson and continued in deceptively soft voice. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? I arrange a meeting with Mycroft in your presence and he gets kidnapped half an hour later. Did you really think I wouldn’t link that?”

Anderson went pale, he would step back but fell on his chair. His hands were shaking.

“S-sherlock, you, you don’t really think I would...”

Sherlock straightened and stepped back, his face softened.

“No, of course I don’t, you are far too stupid for that,” he said mockingly. “I want to know whom did you mention my plans I made in your miserable presence.”

“Oh... Oh my God!” Anderson’s voice was disturbingly high. The man leaned over his laptop and opened emails.

“Explain,” ordered Sherlock. He leaned too, placed his elbows on the desk.

“We... We have a mailing group. In the club, I mean. We send to each other important information...” Anderson opened the right mail and Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes when he saw the name of the group. ‘Hat-man adjutants’, seriously? That sounded like those stupid headlines in shitty newspapers, but then again, what else could he expect?

“You send what exactly?” hissed the detective, fighting the urge to go out slamming the door and preparing himself for the next wave of stupidity. Anderson didn’t fail him in that matter.

“Oh, lots of things,” he answered with a hint of pride in his voice. “Links to the articles, scans from newspapers, details from your investigations... If someone has time, they try to get clues and solve puzzles on their own.”

“And today you described them with details our meeting in the morning and my phone calls,” added Sherlock, having glanced at the open message. Of course Anderson had to tell everyone that he had given Sherlock important information about the car of Mrs. Hudson’s murderers, and then finish his message with an optimistic statement that now both Holmes brothers were on the case, as Sherlock contacted Mycroft. There wasn’t much more the kidnapper needed, realized Sherlock. As much as he wanted to groan seeing Anderson horrid writing, the rest of the fanclub didn’t seem to care. At least ten people replied, thanking for sharing the news and asking for more, another ten expressed their regret for not witnessing the morning conversation. Seeing that, Sherlock solemnly promised himself he would never come here again, unless he had a knife on his throat.

“Of course, you do realize that by sending these details to so many people you managed to inform the person responsible?” Sherlock didn’t even raise his voice, Anderson was already shaking.

“B-but Sherlock, it wasn’t on purpose... What do I do now?”

“Send me information about the members of that club of yours. Names, professions, anything you know. Photos, if you have some,” demanded Sherlock.

“I have plenty of photos, do you want...?”

“Not now.” The detective instinctively ran fingers through his hair and winced when he touched the dried cut. “Send me everything, I will see that at home.”

***

Before Molly finished her shift, it was dark outside. Wet snow was falling, encouraging to hasten footsteps and get home as soon as possible. The pathologist though, instead of driving here silver citroen straight home, headed towards Baker Street. She was out of scene most of the day and hadn’t known much. Only an hour earlier John had called her and informed about the morning explosion, Mycroft’s kidnapping, hectic searching and that awful moment when they had thought Mycroft had died. Molly hadn’t said a word, but when she had heard that someone had managed to kidnap Sherlock’s big brother, she was terrified. So when John had finished his call with information that they had left Sherlock at home because he had been unwell, Molly decided to step by on her way home, just to ensure everything was fine.

Surprisingly, she managed to park in front of the doors, so she just ran do the entrance, not bothering to put on her hood. She rang the bell and scolded herself silently for being illogical. Sherlock could be sleeping and she had keys. Molly opened the door and went quietly upstairs.

“Sherlock?” She called quietly  but the room was empty, as was the kitchen. ‘He’s probably sleeping indeed,’ Molly thought and went through the corridor to glance into the bedroom. Unpleasant disappointment was waiting for her; yet another one this day.

The room was empty, the bed didn’t have any signs of recent use, only a pair of dirty, torn trousers laid on the floor. Molly rushed back to the living room only to make sure that Sherlock’s coat was nowhere to be found. And John had said that Sherlock had a nasty headache, so right now he should be trying to get some sleep. It seemed he wasn’t home.

The question was, where was he. And wherever it was, if Sherlock was there on his own free will or someone had forced him to go. Molly really did try push away the thought that someone got the other Holmes now. Forcing herself to stay calm, she called Sherlock, and when she didn’t succeed, she sent him a message and then informed John. The doctor cursed, but had no idea where Sherlock could be. He just suggested to Molly that she should go home, because he didn’t even know what they could do. Sherlock probably wasn’t hiding, so there was no point in checking his bolt holes.  The pathologist had no idea too, so she reluctantly went back to her car, unsuccessfully trying not to worry.

Molly went to her flat and at first her instinct told her to back off when she saw light in the living room. She was sure she hadn’t left any light in the morning. But before she shut the door, she noticed a familiar-looking coat on the hanger. Someone really did ask for trouble in here...

“Oh, Molly.” Sherlock greeted her and dispelled any doubts she had.

The pathologist exhale deeply for a few times, took off her shoes and coat before entering the room. She should have guessed...

Sherlock half laid on her sofa in dramatic pose, keeping laptop on his stomach. There were also some leftovers from his takeaway meal on the table beside the sofa.

“I hope you don’t mind.” The detective pointed at the bag resting on his knee, which turned out to be a pack of frozen vegetables. “I literally had nothing in my fridge and... What’s the matter?” he asked, confused, seeing the way Molly kept staring at him.

“What did you do with your phone?” she asked. “John told me what had happened today, and I got from Greg what he didn’t mention. What do you think I thought when...”

“You were at Baker Street, obviously,” realized Sherlock. “I completely turned off the voice in my phone, I didn’t want to risk any kind of contact in place I was.”

“And you didn’t think to switch it on again,” added Molly. “Where were you? And why did you apparently lie to us again? Why?” There was more remorse than real anger in the woman’s voice.

Sherlock sat up abruptly, accidentally throwing the frozen bag on the floor.

“Why did you come back alone?” he asked, changing the subject. “Lestrade sent someone to watch you, to keep you safe. Why didn’t you go back with them?”

“Oh, I didn’t know...” Molly didn’t ask how he knew she had driven home, but Sherlock still explained.

“You have white fingers,” he said. “You forgot your gloves and because you were nervous, you clenched your hands on the wheel. If you went by police car, you would have kept your hands in sleeves or pockets. And just a moment ago you placed two sets of keys on the drawer in hall – from your flat and your car.”

“They must have been discreet, I didn’t notice them,” replied Molly. “But don’t change subject. I asked why you pretended again?”

“I needed to get rid of my brother’s company, he might have thought of going with me,” Sherlock shrugged. “I wanted Mary to go home. And John... God, his behavior is unbearable!” he snapped. “He keeps fussing over me as if I was to break any moment, and today he got some imaginary reasons to worry, he drove me crazy with all that doctoring. I thought if I admit that I didn’t feel well, he would leave me alone. Worked perfectly.”

“And are you alright?” asked Molly suddenly instead of reproaching him. Sherlock violently rose his head and looked at her almost venomously.

“In the last twenty four hours I was to go away and never come back, Mrs. Hudson got murdered, I was blown up, I thought Mycroft had died, then almost lost him and Greg, and John let Mary enter a mined building! There is some psychic fan in Anderson’s fanclub who tries to imitate Moriarty and he forces me to play a game with far too high price!” Sherlock spat out. He rose and started wandering around the room, almost stepping on the frozen bag. He came closer to Molly. “And I still cannot work with full efficiency, so what. Do. You. Think?” he snapped.

Molly stood in front of him and grabbed his shoulders, stopping that nervous walking. Sherlock glanced at her, surprised, but didn’t step back.

“I think nothing is alright,” she replied. “And that you need some rest. No,” she warned him, seeing that he’s about to interrupt her. “Don’t object. You just admitted yourself that you’re not at your best, because I don’t think you lied much to John earlier today.”

“This doesn’t mean I can allow myself to rest.” Sherlock pointed out stiffly, suggesting he didn’t want to continue that subject.

“But you are willing to notice that.” Molly smiled; it was an improvement. “Sit down, I will find you something for that knee, ice alone won’t help much,” she added. Only then she realized she was still keeping her hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. The detective solved that problem by simply stepping back and freeing himself from her loose grip.

xxx

He was standing by the basin, trying to figure out what to do. He didn’t want to go back to bed and watch again a kaleidoscope of his nightmares from the last two days, though logically he knew they were only images created by his own imagination. But that was something even he couldn’t control.

The whole situation wasn’t new to him. How many times through the last year had he stood like that, thinking about any better way to spend the rest of the night? When he heard a movement in Molly’s bedroom and then quiet footsteps heading to the bathroom, he couldn’t help...

xxx

_He had thought the light would help. After all, he was home, safe, he came back to Baker Street... And he had thought, naive, that weariness would be enough to get some rest. But as soon as he drifted, his restless sleep threw him straight into the dirty cell, where a torturer with John’s face took revenge for lies and his two-year absence. The nightmare soon drove Sherlock away from his bed, because the feeling that he was completely defenseless while lying was too overwhelming._

_Sherlock stood in the bathroom and stared dully at the cold water. He would have washed his face if he wasn’t shaking so much that only tight grip on the basin kept preventing him from falling. He felt sick from the mere recollection of Serbia and his last dream, and the searing pain emanating from his left side to his back didn’t help. Somewhere deep Sherlock was aware that if he managed to calm down, he wouldn’t irritate his ribs so much, but right now he was afraid that he would suffocate if he slowed his breath. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone was going to chain and beat him again._

_The stairs squeaked and Sherlock was ready to run away, even through the window, but he heard a familiar voice._

_“What is this illumination? Sherlock?”_

_The detective couldn’t move, though he knew that Mrs. Hudson would enter the bathroom any moment now and she would see him, just in his pants, covered with bandages. She wasn’t supposed to know..._

_“Sherlock, what is goi... oh.” The elder lady stopped in the door and froze. “Dear God, child!” she sighed and came closer._

_If not for the fact that she was still talking, reminding Sherlock she was a friend, he would have stepped back and tried to escape, still not sure what was real and what wasn’t. He saw her approaching but jumped anyway when Mrs. Hudson’s warm hands touched his icy cold ones._

_“What happened, Sherlock?” she asked with concern. Her ostensible calmness surpassed Sherlock, who just shook his head, unable to utter a single word. “Ok, it’s alright, you don’t need to tell me now.”_

_‘Not now, not ever,’ Sherlock wanted to reply, but his voice betrayed him. Mrs. Hudson’s presence calmed him down, he slowly stopped shaking._

_“Sherlock, let go of the sink,” the elder lady kept talking._

_Sherlock obeyed. As if in a dream, he washed his face and shook, this time from cold._

_“Alright, come on, back to bed, I will call John.”_

_“No!” objected Sherlock violently. “John doesn’t know. He must not know.”_

_“You need a doctor to take a look at you,” said Mrs. Hudson firmly._

_“I’ve got a doctor,” muttered the detective. “He will come tomorrow, but now...”_

_“Alright, alright. Wait a moment.” Mrs. Hudson left the bathroom, only to return a moment later with one of the kitchen chairs. She put it down with noise and Sherlock couldn’t help but flinch and step back._

_“Sorry... Sit down, easy.”_

_With her pleasant, warm voice Sherlock woke enough to know that nobody  was going to hit him. He sat on the chair back to front, resting his arms on the splat, so that Mrs. Hudson had free access to his back. Right now he couldn’t care less about what she would see; if Mycroft could have seen him in such state, so could not-his-housekeeper._

_Mrs. Hudson stood behind him and reached for the bandages on the top of his back, the ones Sherlock knew that were covered with blood after... meeting with John, but she hesitated. She checked the cupboard under the sink, visibly looking for something she could use for fresh dressings._

_“Wait here for me, I will get my first aid kit,” she said finally when she didn’t find anything in Sherlock’s bathroom._

_“No need. The bag by my bed,” murmured Sherlock. “White tube, three pills from yellow box.” If there was any need, he would be able to give her full names of the medicines, but that was the easiest way for her to find what was needed; doctor Harris had also talked like that, as if he had considered Sherlock unable to remember a few names._

_The ointment with antibiotics was to prevent the possible damage he had done from evolving, and the pills... he should take two, not three, and not in another two hours after that cocktail he had taken in the afternoon, but right now he felt sick from pain, so he decided he deserved some relief._

_Mycroft was wrong, Mrs. Hudson didn’t panic. Sherlock leaned his elbows against the sink and rested his chin on his hands, so that he could see the elder lady in the mirror. When she removed the last dressings and got a closer look on his wounds, three was mostly horror with care and anger on her face. But she remained calm, more calm that John would be, if..._

_Sherlock hissed and shrank, escaping both Mrs. Hudson’s touch and his own dangerous thoughts. The way John would react shouldn’t be any concern of his, because John didn’t see and wouldn’t react. And is Sherlock wanted to remain sane, he shouldn’t bother._

_“You can’t escape like that if you want me to help,” said Mrs. Hudson. ‘I don’t want to hurt you more.”_

_“I won’t.” Sherlock took three pills and swallowed them without any drink. It shouldn’t cause much damage._

_Despite what he said, he leaned his head and tightened his grip on the basin, when he saw her hand in the mirror. Mrs. Hudson pretended she didn’t see that and tended his wet locks with motherly gesture..._

_xxx_

“...Sherlock?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson, I won’t...” Sherlock began to answer and stopped, when Molly’s image in the mirror made him realize mistake he had just made. But the feeling was so strong...

Molly felt as if someone hit her. The fact that Sherlock had just mistaken her for Mrs. Hudson in reply to his own thoughts was scary and the woman didn’t even try to stop her tears. She had managed to hold herself during the day, then Sherlock had scared her, so in the evening his mere presence nearby was enough for her to keep composure. Right now, still sleepy and seeing Sherlock in such pitiful state, she couldn’t help it.

“Molly, don’t,” moaned Sherlock, seeing as the woman tried to wipe her eyes with helpless gesture. “I didn’t mean...” he said stiffly; he had no idea how to repair the mistake that just changed Molly into a fountain of tears. The pathologist didn’t move, just inhaled spasmodically, trying to calm down. At the same time she was blocking the way out of the bathroom, so Sherlock couldn’t just leave... He tried anyway, but then Molly embraced him without any warning.

Sherlock froze. He thought he should have gotten used to that by now, it wasn’t first time over last two days when Molly hugged him like that, but he wasn’t prepared this time. He returned the hug a moment later, wincing from the pain in his knee when he stepped on his bad leg. The swelling didn’t reduce much, probably because he had strained his knee too much before he had a chance to do something about it. Sherlock tried not to pay attention to this discomfort, but it was hard, especially now, when night made him so vulnerable. He hated that feeling of helplessness and lack of control, when another nightmare had left him with speeding heart and some irrational loathing to close his eyes again.

“Oh...” Molly realized that Sherlock moved his weight on his good leg and she stuck to that, trying to calm down and find herself something to do right now. “You were supposed to rest that leg, come back to bed...”

“No, Molly, you go back to sleep, I don’t want to wake you again,” objected Sherlock, but because Molly regained control and just kept sniffling a bit, he followed her to the bedroom. Only when she sat on her bed, he hesitated.

“Go to sleep, I will go to the living room,” he repeated stiffly and wanted to go back, but Molly’s question stopped him.

“Troubles with sleeping again?” asked Molly quietly and wiped her eyes.

“Again?” repeated the detective. He seemed indignant and a bit... hurt?

“I know what your back looks like,” Molly reminded him. She took the tube with ointment from the nightstand and handed it to Sherlock, repeating the invitation for him to sit down.

His bad knee hurt and the ointment brought some relief, so Sherlock allowed her to win.

“This doesn’t necessarily mean I have any problems,” he said, indignant, fighting with his trousers; he barely managed to raise it above the swelling.

“Everyone would have problems after something like that, even you,” replied Molly and opened the tube and applied the ointment on Sherlock’s knee. “But no... Mrs. Hudson mentioned it when you were at hospital. She came once, you were sleeping and I sat beside you. She asked me if you had any problems with sleep and then she told me how the first nights after your return looked like. But then, at hospital, you were so drugged that...” Molly stopped because Sherlock froze again, this time with tightly closed eyes. “Oh, sorry, I talk too much, I shouldn’t...”

“It’s fine,” sighed Sherlock. He took a few slow breaths, then opened his eyes and gave Molly weary, watery look. Molly moved to the other side of the bed and slipped under her quilt to give Sherlock some privacy. She didn’t want to impose on him, but she certainly wasn’t going to leave him alone.

Sherlock took his time, but he finally laid down and wrapped himself in a sheet. Molly hoped he would get some sleep.

 


End file.
